


Hell's Fire in His Eyes

by bright73



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-24
Updated: 2008-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:58:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bright73/pseuds/bright73





	Hell's Fire in His Eyes

Ruby senses the moment Sam gets into trouble. The stupid big pup is always getting in trouble lately. She feels it even if she's miles away, not that she ever is these days, she's pretty much always around, ready to save him from himself. But this time he'd slipped below her radar and she feels the pain course through him, bones nearly splitting and skin breaking open before he finally manages to exorcise whatever he's stumbled upon this time. She curses under her breath; Sam's exorcising and he's not ready to do that all alone yet, not by a long shot. She can't remember how many times she'd told him that, warned him what will happen if he tries and fails.

She feels his strain, mixed with searing pain and she hates herself for the attachment she's formed with this human, who's really more than she can handle. Her breath hitches for a moment, before she relaxes, sensing he'd survived. Then she shut him off best she can, pushing the call of his demon blood to the back of her conscience.

Sam Winchester needed to get slapped. Her instinct was to find him and drag him to his hide-out and fucking spank some sense into him if necessary.

Lilith's not stupid, she has her minions on patrol, keeping an eye on Sam. Being too chicken-shit to face him herself, she'll gladly send some overly excited idiot among her followers to do the job for her. Lilith, the mother of all manipulative bitches, holds no qualms. Sending her minions back to hell meant nothing to Lilith and meeting up with Sam Winchester was one of a way to go.

Sam, the leader that never stepped up to take his role but turned on them instead. The only one that had the juice to destroy the mother of all bitches.

The one Ruby had placed her bet on.

She rises and licks her fingers, salt burns on her tongue and she'd kill for another helping of fries. Sam was getting his ass kicked for interrupting her binge.

 

 

The darkness outside is calming, despite the thick July heat that still lingers, long after the sun has set. Ruby walks the streets, on high alert, knowing the dangers of the dark, thriving on the kick it gives her. She's done this for centuries, she's used to it. Time had changed, the fear remained the same. When she gets close to Sam's lair, she scans the streets for the Impala, wondering if Sam had left the car behind and gone out on one of his runs and or intentionally went out to get into trouble? It was hard to tell these days, sometimes he really went out to get injured, sometimes it just happened because he was a trouble magnet.

She won't ask, because she really doesn't want to know.

When she turns the corner, she spots the Impala, parked in its usual spot, unnoticed if you didn't know to look for it. Resting her hand on the hood, she realizes the car hasn't been used for a while and Sam's on foot. That makes her suspect it's another suicide attempt by proxy. She hates to admit it, but Sam still has bouts of wanting to end it all. It isn't as blatant as before but it's still there, that black despair that has his eyes turn a shade of hell and beyond. The smallest things can trigger it, and she hasn't found out exactly which yet. But it's plain to see when his body stiffens, jaw tightens and eyes close out everything but the living nightmare that rides him mercilessly.

The worst thing is that she has to thread carefully around him; she's given him the power to cast her back in the pit if she pisses him off. She has to work him slowly, pulling him along with sweet talk and gentleness. Biting down her sarcasm is the hardest part. Inhabiting an empty body is a relief because the host she had borrowed, up until Lilith sent her back, had been a bitch. She had wanted to screw Sam the moment she laid eyes on him, nagging persistently that she needed to get laid. Cackling happily every time Ruby killed the host to get rid of the demon, nagging for new fucking shoes once a week; a demanding, spoiled brat with a seriously screwed up sense of humor. And the fights they had about the French fries had been ridiculous. Still, she missed her when Bobby offed her with a bullet to the heart. She'd been a perfectly snotty host, driving Ruby bonkers and reminding her that humanity wasn't all it was cracked up to be. French fries made you fat? Who the fuck cared?

 

The motel's a dump, and the only one crazy enough to get a room here is Sam. It's been a week since Sam went after Lilith, half-assed and royally screwed up in his head. Twelve days since she managed to creep under his skin enough to get him laid and he finally slept without having to drown himself in booze. Twelve days since she discovered that she may just be a little too involved.

Sam had been rough, desperate and self-loathing. But he never went over the line and became brutal. He'd clung to her, desperate for some solace in the act, for something else than pain. The kisses were hungry and spiced with torment. His hands had sought her out like if to convince himself that she was real, that the body she considered her own was alive and kicking. And boy, had it been kicking! She had reveled in the taut skin under her palms, the muscles bulging under her touch, the teeth nibbling her earlobe and the large hands nested in her hair. Sam's pained, lust-filled moans and the pure strength in his body had turned her on in a way she hadn't expected. It had been animalistic, raw and so intense that when Sam came, eyes crunched shut and body trembling, she'd let go too. She hadn't intended to be pulled in like that, never thought she'd be the one on the slippery slope.

When he rolled to his side, curling into a fetal position and fell asleep, she'd lain there, trying to regulate her breathing. Body slack, sated and the soothing warmth tingling in her reminded her of when she was truly alive. Dragging herself out of bed , she'd stopped to watch Sam and cursed herself for not having realized it before. His body pushed her every button. She had know that from the get go and had condemned the fact that the one hope of permanently getting rid of Lilith had to look like a fucking wet dream. Broad shoulder, long legs and narrow hips, combined with a dimpled smile and puppy eyes framed by the curly mop of hair.

She wants to slap him for doing this to her. Remembering being human was one ting, actually needing to feel was another.

 

She'd growled irritably when she pulled on her clothes, the heated skin still feeling overly sensitive. Reaching for the half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey, she took a long swig and cringed at the taste and the burn in her throat. She did a double-take at the sound from Sam; a pained, half-grunt, half-sob when he curled in further on himself, like he was freezing in the hot summer night. Stepping up to the bedside, she'd pulled the cover over him. The hand clutching the pillow had relaxed, bangs fell over his eyes, making him look incredibly vulnerable.

She had turned and walked out then, clasping the whiskey-bottle like it was her BFF, cursing Sam Winchester with every sip of the disgusting liqueur.

 

It had taken three days for Sam fucking Winchester to pop up on her radar again, like a red flash in the dark. This time he was set on taking Lilith out. At least she had gotten a long overdue 'thank you' for saving his ass. He had looked like shit after pulling the demon out, face crunched up in pain and nose bleeding all over the place. After that she had tried to actively block him out from her radar and she never quite managed.

And that's what lands her here, waiting for him to drag his sorry ass to back to the motel. She isn't really worried, no way, she's just pissed at him and his amazing skills in finding trouble wherever he lands his ass. Yup, it's anger, not worry, that has her waiting behind a corner in the dark. Fingers itching to slap some sense into him. This time she won't be drawn into his misery, she'll stick close by and see to it that he lives long enough and hones his skills enough to be useful.

 

She knows when he turns the corner, knows without actually seeing him in the dense darkness. His walk is unsteady when he finally emerges under the street light. He keeps close to the walls, hiding in plain sight and she senses that he's aware of her presence. Sam's not stupid, just incredibly obtuse at times.

He acknowledges her with a weary look when she walks up to meet him. There's blood on his shirt and his face is smeared with the remnants of precariously washed off nosebleed. She just looks at him and furrows her brow. It's clear that he isn't in a talking mood when he stalks past her and she follows. He opens the door and leaves it open, hand coming out to steady himself when he stops and shrugs off the soiled shirt. She flicks the lights on and lets her bag fall onto the discarded garment on the floor. Pissed at Sam for not having bothered with salt lines by the door. It's so fucking careless that she wants to kick him.

Sam slides to sit on the bed, head bowed, resting in the palm of his hand. The other hand lays, smeared with crusted blood and curled into a loose fist, on his thigh.

“Sam?”

She receives no reply and knows this is one of his more hellish nights.

“Let me take a look at your injury, Sam.” She tries to keep her voice void of anger and worry.

“No,” he snaps, obstinate like a five-year old.

Ruby has to suppress a snark and modulate her voice before she tries again. “It's gotta hurt, let me help you before you get blood poisoning or something. Thought you wanted to get Lilith and not land your sorry ass in a hospital bed? Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought you were over the suicidal stupidity.”

Sam lifts his head and looks at her, the anger diluting the hopeless tiredness in his gaze. “He died.”

And Ruby gets it. Another host that Sam couldn't save, another reason to emo all over the place. “Listen Sam, you know -.”

He's up off the bed so fast that she reflexively steps back when he brushes past her.

“It wasn't supposed to be like this Ruby! I should be able to keep them alive by now.” His voice is low and vibrating with anger and self-loathe when he takes a swing with his right hand, driving it clear through the thin drywall and connects with the concrete underneath.

She watches as he grunts horsely, curls in on himself, pressing his hand to his chest and crunching his eyes shut. He doesn't protest when she grabs his arm, fingers curling around his elbow tentatively. When Sam doesn't move, she lays her hand on the small of his back and steers him back to sit on the bed. He sits there, silent and broken, when she goes for the first aid kit in his duffel bag.

He doesn't protest when she places her fingertips on his shoulder and pushes him backwards. He just straightens up, looks at her and leans back. His eyes seems completely empty and for a moment she's truly scared that he's fallen so deep that he won't never be able to climb back up.

“You know Dean would smack you over the head for this,” she reprimands.

Sam flinches, like the spoken name is worse than the slapping he'd surely be receiving if Dean was around. She looks at his face, taken with the darkness in his eyes as they meet with hers; the color flat around the large pupils. His eyes are those of a man halfway to hell. And it gets to her. Something deep inside her stirs at Sam Winchester's torment and it isn't the demonic glee she would have preferred. It's something very human that she doesn't want to admit ever feeling, not even while alive, not when it comes to Sam Winchester. Feeling anything at all for him is dangerous and might one day interfere with her goals.

“How the hell did you manage to get cut like this?” Looking at the soiled t-shirt, deep and uneven holes in a circle, she blinks with confusion.

“Trashed beer bottle,” Sam clarifies and tries to move away. Ruby steps up to stand between his legs, hindering him.

“That'll teach you to lay off with the booze,” she mutters. “Stay still! You know you have fucking glass shards and fabric in the deepest cuts? This is gonna hurt like a bitch.”

Sam snorts dismissively and she looks at him, smirking at the who-the-fuck-cares expression.

“And I so don't like grown men crying,” she continues. “Man, you're in for a real high, you pain-junkie. Did you decide to hug him while he was coming at you?” She opens the whiskey bottle with her teeth, glaring disapprovingly at Sam.

Sam raises his head enough to meet her eye to eye. “I already fucked a demon, hugging just comes naturally,” he sneers and meets her stare dead on, in a silent duel. She spits the tap out, pours the liqueur on the cuts and watches it soak the t-shirt.

Sam reaction is immediate; his body tenses up like a string, hands fist the bed cover and face contorts with pain.

She smiles.

The tendons on Sam's neck has her wanting to bite him, tease him and lick the pain from his face. To quell the impulse, she reaches over and grabs the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it up over his head in one swift move.

“What the hell?” He groans, hands coming up to grip her wrists, trying to stop her.

“Want me to stitch the tee to your skin, dude? Need to get this off!”

“I can do this on my own!” Sam's just protesting out of some stupid sense of pride by now, she can tell. He's too tired to really get into it and the child-like, angry pout doesn't sway her.

“Shut up!” Wringing her wrists out of his hands , she proceeds to pull the t-shirt down his arms and balls it up to throw it onto the bed, over his shoulder.

“Next you'll be wanting my pants.” There's a deflated smile twisting one corner of his mouth.

“Don't flatter yourself,” she snaps, leaning in closer to look at the ridges of the cuts. Blood trickles from around a particularly large piece of glass, embedded deeply into Sam's skin and muscle tissue. There's one long cut straight from the mark of the trashed bottle to the tattoo, breaking the line, making it useless. She looks up at him and realizes that he already knows but doesn't care.

“Lie down,” she orders, going for the tweezers in the kit.

“I told you, I'll do this myself,” Sam grunts and leans over to grab the duffel-bag.

“Sam!” She glares daggers at him. “Lie down! I'll have to dig the dirt and glass out, you'll be lucky if you don't pass out halfway through it and you wanna do it yourself? I know your head is scrambled right now, but there's a limit. It's this or I dial 911 and leave an anonymous tip about a bleeding freak in a motel. Your choice.”

He looks at her, long and hard, before he finally lies down and spreads himself over the covers. “Why do I always end up with the bossy ones?”

Ruby smiles wryly when she pulls on the medical gloves.

 

Sam was grunting and sweating like a pig before she was halfway done. Bangs glued to his front, body arched and hands in white-knuckled fists around the covers. The first piece of glass had come out easily enough but the bleeding had forced her to press hard on the wound, the smaller shards digging deeper into the skin, sending Sam cursing her. But he laid still, or tried to, and let her finish the job with insecure and clumsy moves.

 

The wound appears clean now but Sam's not looking so good. She's never stitched anybody up before and starting with Sam feels a bit awkward. But she doesn't trust him to do it himself, he wouldn't care enough to do it right.

She rises and makes a beeline to find the laptop and google 'suture+knots'.

“You have to check your mail now?” Sam inquires irritably.

“Shut up!” She decides to go with the simplest, and hopefully least painful, basic square knots and vertical mattress stitches. It somehow fits the situation, Sam's a square-headed, stubborn SOB after all. She carries the laptop over to the bed and places it at Sam's side, right in her line of view.

Sam's eyes widens when he sees the page. “You googled?”

“What you suggest me to do? Hope for divine inspiration? Just shut up and lie still, I've got this covered.” She threads the needle with difficulty, the tremor in her fingers is getting worse. She tells herself it's the fatigue of digging for all the dirt in the wound. The light in here isn't exactly top notch.

Sam's head falls back onto the pillow and he groans theatrically.

His skin's warm when she leans her arms on his torso, his muscles twitch under her weight. He doesn't even flinch when she sticks through the layers of his hide; he visibly relaxes. Like in his twisted mind, the physical pain is a relief. And maybe it is? Finally some tangible reason for feeling pain was probably easier than the eternal guilt and hopelessness that shadows Sam's eyes. His feeling run deep, she can feel them course through his body like a fire. She has to restrain from reaching out and moving the messed up, sweaty bangs, out of his eyes.

She has trouble with the last knot, tugging at the catgut to get it right and Sam growls deep in his throat. The sound kicks up memories she's been trying to keep at bay. Sam sweaty, pressing his face to her over-heated skin, making heart-wrenching sounds when he finally let go. So unbelievably vulnerable and emotionally naked in his release.

Avoiding to look at his face, she tapes the patch of gauze over the still angrily red injury. She should ask how he's doing but instead she goes for what' s left in the whiskey bottle. Downs it with one mouthful and closes her eyes as it burns its way down her throat. Her hands still tremble and she feels like sucking up a gallon of soothing booze. Take a bath in it to cool her jets.

Sam's hand closes around her wrist, holds it steady. “Thanks.”

She looks up, meets with his, almost soft, eyes. It throws her.

”Your taste in liquor is crappy, you know that, dont'cha?” Finally she'd gotten the snark back. “Just as crappy as your exorcising.” She moves to get off the bed and away from the man lying on it, far away enough not to feel the warmth radiate off him.

“Hey!” Sam pulls her back. “I sent it back.”

She narrows her eyes, leaning in toward him. “Not before it slashed you up good. Sloppy Sam, sloppy!”

He makes a growling sound, white teeth flashing in an angry leer and pulls her to lie on top of him, hand curling around the back of her neck. “That's what consorting with demons does to me.” He stares at her with hard eyes, jaw jutted in menace.

She snorts. “No, that's what consorting with cheap booze does to you. You numb yourself, Sam, and you know you need to feel to be able to do it. You need the anger and the fear; numbing yourself will only make the powers kill your sorry ass when you least expect it.”

The hand on the back of her neck tightens when Sam drapes his arm around her waist and pulls her closer; their eyes lock in another tug of silent war. She feels hot and fucking embarrassed at how her breathing changes and gives her away. Even through her clothing, she feels him. All hard planes and bulging muscle, all Sam, so fucking hot it burns. She moves her gaze to his jawline, catches the slight swelling and the discoloration. Wants to smack him and make it hurt even more.

Sam takes it as a sign of defeat and rolls her to her back. Laughs deep in his throat and kisses her.

The kiss breaks her, makes her feel all the desperation in him; the anger he feels for caving to the urge and the need he can't fight. She nestles her fingers in his hair, tugs him closer and deepens the kiss. Makes it hard and demanding, taking control. Absolving him.

 

They fumble, get caught in each others clothes, bang their heads together in their hurry to get naked. The laptop crashes to the floor when Sam slips her jeans off with one hand; eyes clammed shut and hand wrapped in her hair. She can't open the button of his jeans, struggles and curses into the kiss. Can't let go of the soft strands of hair that curl at the base of his neck. Wants him even closer, wants him fucking glued to her skin.

Ruby's all naked before she has his pants even halfway down his thighs and he kicks the sneakers off and wriggles out of the rest. Her hands are everywhere; traveling the length of his body, nails raking across his back, pressing a little too hard. She loves the reaction she causes; the hard length pressed to her thigh, the garbled sounds he makes when she slides her palm over his taut abdomen, follows it with toothy nips and lets her hair sooth the red marks of her bites.

“Don't,” he cracks and tries to push her away. She can't read the tone of his voice and lifts her head to eye him questioningly. His hand is still in her hair, holding on, or holding her back, she's not sure which.

“I'm just using you, you know that, don't you?” He says it like it's both an apology and a plea.

She straddles him then, crawls up on his body and buries her browns in his hazel ones. “I'm just playing with my favorite pet, dude. Close the trap!”

His eyes go a little wider, slant over to disbelief, narrow in anger and snap to understanding in a second. She likes that about Sam, how swiftly he can move from emotion to emotion, how quickly he gets things, if he wants to. When she leans in to lick his bottom lip, he takes the cue and pulls her into the kiss. His hands are so large that they cover half of her back, it makes her toes curl. She bites the juncture of his shoulder and neck, digs her teeth in hard and growls. He tastes of earth and salt and Sam, a mixture that goes straight to her loins and makes her wet his skin with her need. Porn has nothing on Sam, can't compete with the narrow hips working under her, rubbing her in all the strategic places. She licks the pert nipple beside the patch when she slides down and reaches for her jeans at the end of the bed and pulls out the condom. He looks at her this time, sits up and grabs her ass with both hands, eyes glued to hers. This time she holds the gaze and the control, doesn't let her eyes flicker once before she has him halfway inside her. The hot fullness has her throw her head back and groan, fingers buried in his shoulders, hurting him. She bites down on her lip while she slowly rides him, feeling every inch of him open her up and fill her at the same time. Tries to stay quiet and in charge but fails. When he shifts to wrap his arms around her, she curses him and lets her forehead fall onto his shoulder. She's so close and this wasn't supposed to happen, he wasn't supposed to get to her like this. This was an entirely different Sam, a Sam that was attentive and gentle. Let her take what she needed and she wanted to hurt him for allowing her to see him like this.

“Fuck me,” she gets out between rushed exhales.

And he does. He rolls them over, rises to lean on his hands and drives deep inside of her. Her thighs frame his narrow hips, pulling him deeper and showing him the rhythm. His breath is raspy, primal grunts leaving him with every thrust and she comes helplessly. Falls of the cliff, hand buried in his hair, spirals in the air with her body arched in pleasure while he adjusts his thrusts to match her contractions. He leans in and bites at her neck, making her vision black out when the first wave isn't even over before she comes again. He keens through her orgasm, tries to hold back but in the end, he comes too, hips pressed hard to her, face hidden in the crook of her neck.

 

She moans in the aftermath, feeling herself shudder around him, sensing him deflate, pull out and roll away. She's too tired to move, too fucked out to think. Waits for him to lie back down at her side, but it doesn't happen. She hears him dispose of the condom and senses him shift on the bed. Then he stays absolutely still.

Ruby opens her eyes, see that he's sitting up, curled in on himself, forehead resting on his raised knee. When she drags herself up and lays a hand on his back, she feels the small tremors wracking his body.

“Hey?” she rasps in a broken, winded voice.

He flinches, lifts and turns his head to look at her and she suddenly goes cold.

The expression in his eyes reminds her of the ever burning fires of hell. The despair and pain of the tormented souls hits her from within Sam's eyes. And she can't take it and doesn't know how to take the pain away and still she knows that nobody should have that look in their eyes. Not while alive.

She's up on her knees besides him, pulls the quilt and sheet from under him and pushes him to lie on his back. The gauze isn't white anymore, there's blood leaking through and she knows the strain hurt him. Wishes that was the only thing that bled in him. She knows better.

Sam lies silent and she leans to cover him with the ratty sheet, tries to tuck him in. He makes a sound that's something akin to a wounded animal's and pulls her down to spoon her. Burrowing his face in her hair, he holds her tight and Ruby isn't sure if Sam is actually crying silently. She waits until the tremors cease and he exhales, still curled up around her.

“Thanks,” he speaks in a voice that breaks her.

She waits some more, until his breathing evens out and his body goes lax against hers. His breath warm and humid against her skin and finally running deeper and calmer.

She fleets her fingers with his and wants to cry when he lets her. Remembers how fucking much it hurt to be human.

And still, that's all she ever wanted to be and that's how Sam makes her feel.

Tears well up in her eyes and the sun starts to rise.


End file.
